


Forgotten: A Soft Blue Scarf, Slightly Bloodied.

by HumsHappily



Series: Forgotten [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Christmas Fluff, Christmas Sadness, Indian Victor, It gets a bit sad, M/M, Marriage Proposal, No Johnlock, Sendhil Ramamurthy as Victor, Viclock, With a few modifications, but everyone is happy in the end, holiday fic, holiday gift fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-30
Updated: 2014-12-30
Packaged: 2018-03-03 15:45:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2856323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HumsHappily/pseuds/HumsHappily
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i> His name is Victor Trevor.” Sherlock said, locking eyes with the other man.</i><br/><i> “Eighteen years is a very long time to be apart.” Victor smiled, unwinding a deep red scarf from his neck.  </i><br/> <br/><i>This is a gift fic for Aithilin on Tumblr as a part of exchangelock’s Holiday Exchange 2014!  The prompt was fluffy holiday domestics. This might go a bit off that, but I love a good love story.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Forgotten: A Soft Blue Scarf, Slightly Bloodied.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Aithilin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aithilin/gifts).



** December 22rd, 1994- London **

William Sherlock Scott Holmes was up in a tree, with a bleeding ankle. His coat hung around him as he swore at the dog, jumping up and barking by the base of the tree. Not only was his ankle now injured, the damn dog was still there, waiting.

“Alabaster! ALABASTER! COME HERE!” The dog, a very, very dark black furred creature, stopped barking and picked up the dark red fabric it had dropped before taking off towards the voice.

“What is that? Drop boy! What the hell?”

Sherlock listened to the voice-American accent, male, young, foreign parents, note clipping of syllables- as it swore and clipped a leash onto the dog.

He made his way down the tree, pine sap staining his hands as he clambered down carefully. Once he reached the bottom, he stood, gingerly putting weight on his foot as he winced.

“Oh my god, I am so sorry, are you ok?” asked a voice behind him. It belonged to a tall youth, dark skinned, holding a leash.

“I’m fine, just injured. And your ridiculous dog is still chewing up my scarf.”

“Oh shit.” The man dropped to the ground, and attempted to pry open the jaws of the beast. “Sorry about this, he’s just really athletic, likes to play.”  Giving the scarf up as a lost cause, the man stood again. “How bad is your leg? Can I go fetch a cab or something for you?”

“That would be appreciated,” Sherlock gritted out, ankle throbbing.

“Oh. Victor, by the way. My name is Victor Trevor. We actually had chemistry together, not that you ever came to class,” the man said, removing his scarf from his neck and dropping to his knees. He wrapped the soft blue fabric around the wound, pulling it tight. Sherlock hissed slightly at the pain.

“Sherlock Holmes. The blood isn’t going to come out of that.” Sherlock said, as Victor stood and offered him his arm. He accepted, scowling and the trio made their way slowly to the road.

“No problem man, I don’t mind.”

Victor, surprisingly, did not keep up a steady stream of inane chatter, and when he threw up his arm to flag a cab, Sherlock was surprised to see the thin etching of a bumblebee tattooed upon his wrist.

Curious.

  


** December 23rd, 1995- London **

Smoke curling up from the tip of his cigarette, Sherlock was nude and sprawled across the black sheets of a king size bed. His pale skin was practically glowing -  coated with a slight sheen of sweat from earlier exertions.

“I’m going to be late now. I hope you know that,” Victor Trevor said, glancing in the mirror to the man laying in his bed. His hands worked at his neck, evening the sides of a deep green bowtie, before deftly twisting them together.

The other man just smirked, taking another drag of his cigarette. He blew the smoke up, ringing around his head. Victor stalked over to the bed, and leaned over his lover.

“You can still come to the party with me. We could stay over, have Christmas with my family.”

Each word was punctuated with a soft kiss pressed against the younger man’s skin.

“You’d bring me home to meet the rest of your family?”

“Why wouldn’t I? My brilliant, brilliant boyfriend. My darling love, my sweet honey-bee.”

“Don’t be condescending, Victor.”

“I’m not being condescending, my dear Holmes. I’m just telling the truth.”

Victor smiled and pushed off the bed to walk over the wardrobe. He pulled his shoes out from under the edge, bracing himself against the door as he slipped them on. Sherlock got up from the bed, wrapping the top sheet around him. Victor quirked an eyebrow at the movement.

When long pale arms came to wrap around him, adjusting his collar he laughed and leaned his head down to nip at the fingers. He received a bop on the nose as a response.

“I really am going to be late Sherlock. Father apparently has something important to tell me.”

Sherlock withdrew, going back to sit cross legged on the bed. He picked up his cigarette and flicked the ash off the tip.

“Victor…”  he said hesitantly.

“Will, I’d really rather you not deduce my father’s surprise.”

“I just think you should—“

“Sherlock, I mean it. Don’t.”

“Very well,” Sherlock said, unfolding his lanky frame and walking over to the bathroom door.

“Will, please don’t pout,” Victor teasingly called in after him.

“I’m not pouting.”  The deep voice replied as water began to rattle through the pipes.

“William Sherlock Scott Holmes, get out here and give me a kiss goodbye.”

There was the sound of slight shuffling from the bathroom, before Sherlock’s naked torso popped out the door.

“You’re really lucky all nice girls like a soldier.”

Victor laughed. “I was only in the forces for two years and it’s still sailor.”

Sherlock just crooked a finger from the doorway. Victor shook his head as he walked over, straightening his jacket. They shared a kiss, before Sherlock ducked back into the bathroom and Victor left, whistling as he exited the flat, walking into a light snowfall.

  


** January 1st, 1996- London **

 “You knew didn’t you?”

Sherlock looked up from his textbook and blanched at the sight of the man in the door.

“I…”

“No. Don’t lie to me,” Victor said angrily, shoving his travel bag aside and pulling off his gloves.

“You asked me not to deduce. I can’t help that, but I didn’t tell you,” Sherlock said quietly, moving off the couch to flick on the kettle. He pulled two mugs from the cupboard and tossed a tea bag in each.

“My father is dying, Will,” Victor said, now coatless as he came into the kitchen and slumped down into a chair. Sherlock said nothing, handing him a mug of tea and pushing the sugar bowl across the table. He sat down and watched as Victor put his head in his hands.

“You know what this means. I’m going to have to leave London. I’m going to have to go back to America, take over the company there. I’m going to have to travel back and forth to India.”

“Victor, you don’t have to—”

“No, Sherlock, it isn’t a choice. It was never going to be a choice and you know that. I can’t leave him alone to do this. Not since mom died.” Victor met Sherlock’s eyes, the pain apparent. “Just….I don’t want to talk about it okay? I’m going to bed. Join me if you want.”

Victor disappeared into the bedroom. Sherlock slipped in after him once some time had passed. His long, cold arms wrapped around the other man, one hand coming up to brush the tears from his cheeks, the other stroking a bullet wound on the man’s right shoulder.

“Why does nothing ever work out for me, Will? Why does everything that makes me happy, that makes me good, end?” Victor choked out, shaking quietly. “I was so happy…”

Hours later, as the cloud smothered sun rose over the rooftops of London, Sherlock was still holding the other man. Victor had finally cried himself to sleep, and yet, Sherlock didn’t remove his arms.

“I love you.” He whispered into the dark room, to the sleeping man in his arms, to the rising sun.

And even though no one heard him, it felt like he had shouted it to the world.  Sherlock lay there, making a silent promise to hold Victor close until the man left him.

 

** April 18th, 1996- Heathrow Airport **

The two men stood on the path in front of the airport, an arms length apart. A cab idled at the curb, waiting for Sherlock.

“I’ll let you know when I’m in town,” Victor said, careful eyes flickering up to meet Sherlock’s.

“Of course,” Sherlock replied stiffly. They both knew it was a lie, that Victor wouldn’t visit because it hurt too much. That he wouldn’t call, because it would be too hard to bear. That even if he did, Sherlock wouldn’t pick up, because he’d somehow know it was Victor and that the pain would be just as striking over the telephone line.

“Maybe one day…” Victor trailed off, dropping what he was going to say. He went to move in for a hug, maybe even a kiss, but Sherlock stuck out a hand.

“Thank you for everything, Victor.”

Victor smiled sadly, and shook the hand offered to him, before dropping it gently.

“To the very best of times, Will.” He picked up his bag and walked to the door. As he reached the doorway, he turned and raised a hand in farewell. Sherlock stood at the car door and allowed a single breath to escape him as he raised his hand in response.

He waited until Victor disappeared into the building, before opening the door to the cab.

As the driver chattered on about her new granddaughter in the States, Sherlock stared out the window. He was breaking, but it wasn’t until he slipped his hands into his coat pocket and felt a scrap of soft blue fabric, bloodstains long gone, that he knew it.  His insides felt like he had swallowed shattered glass, like someone was boring a hole into him with a hot poker. His heart was crumbling into pieces - the stone of his soul clattering to the ground, echoing against the walls of his mind palace.

But, he would be fine. He would harden his heart and never see Victor again.  Never love again. He would slam the door on Victor, lock the memories behind a sheet of tungsten, tie them with chains of iron. He would make himself get through this.

After all, caring was not an advantage.

————————————

Years later, Sherlock Holmes would meet another soldier with a broken soul, and a wounded shoulder. He would befriend the man, piece him back together. Then he would leave him for two years to protect the people he refused to admit he cared for. He would come back and earn one more bruise, as a well deserved fist hit his face. He would smile sadly as the other fell in love with a woman eerily like himself - all secrets and carefully controlled emotions. He would leave their wedding early, smoke cigarette after cigarette in the moonlit garden, imagining how Victor would have enjoyed the wedding. How he would have smiled at him as he coaxed a waltz from his violin. How they could have danced to some tawdry pop song or an even more foolish love ballad, while they gazed at each other. He would be fine, but on this one day, John’s wedding day, he would allow himself this weakness. Allow himself to unlock the memories and sort through them one by one, remembering things he hadn’t been able to delete no matter how hard he tried.  And he would still keep an old blue scarf wrapped around his neck.

————————————

 

**December 24th, 2014- 221b Baker Street**

“Thank you. I didn’t expect there’d be a party, he was never one for much celebration.”

“Well you know how it is dear. Enough pressure and bartering that boy will do anything. This one time, I had to promise a…..”

At the voices floating up the stairs, Sherlock stopped playing with an abrupt screech of the strings. Lestrade and Molly turned to look at him, breaking off conversation. John, far more used to the odd noise did not react until he saw Sherlock’s sharp pivot to face the door. Bow and violin in hand, Sherlock stood frozen as the door to the flat opened. Mrs.Hudson walked in, still chattering away. She was followed by a tall man, cloaked in dark green wool. He was dark skinned, hair just going grey at the temples. Dark brown eyes, with flecks of Christmas green speckled about, darted around the room before settling on Sherlock. They widened behind the pair of wire rimmed glasses at the sight of the consulting detective.

“Will,” The man said, voice somewhat awed as he removed his left glove slowly.

The crowded living room remained silent, the party goers staring as Sherlock gaped, silent and still. John and Mary exchanged a glance, John’s hand going automatically to his waistband, where the Sig rested, a holiday tradition at 221. Mary silently moved to cover Molly and Greg, hand resting softly in her jumper pocket, where something sharp was secreted, again weapons being a holiday tradition when one stayed around Sherlock Holmes.

“Please.” The man raised his hands, stilling their movements. “I mean no harm. I’m sure this was just a shock.”

“Perhaps, you should introduce yourself.” Greg said, finally noticing the tension in the room and the changed positions of John and Mary.  

“His name is Victor Trevor,” Sherlock said, locking eyes with the other man. Next to Greg, Molly Hooper’s eyes widened with shock as she let out a slight squeak. Greg lifted an eyebrow at the woman, curious as to what she knew about the mysterious man that had just entered the flat.

“Eighteen years is a very long time to be apart.” Victor smiled, unwinding a deep red scarf from his neck.

“You know I didn’t want it to be,” Sherlock responded, face blank.  John and Mary visibly relaxed as the conversation continued, hands lifted from their weapons, though John was still tense, looking to his consulting detective.

“Neither did I. Yet here we are. Old, greying, and still alone,” Victor said quietly, gesturing to his temples and jaw line where the stubble was indeed peppered with grey.

“You are forty-two Victor, that’s hardly old.” Sherlock said, arching an eyebrow. Turning, he set his violin down gently on its stand. “And I’m not alone,” he said, gesturing around him at the partygoers.

“You know what I meant,” Victor responded.

“Yes. I did," Sherlock said, holding his ground.

“We have a lot to talk about. You were dead, Will.” Victor said softly, watching for the younger man’s reaction. “I was back in London, I was going to find you and you were dead. I saw your face on every newspaper.”

“And you were gone.” Sherlock said harshly, sudden anger flaring in his eyes. “I had to do it. I had to protect them. You have no right to judge. Not when you left me first.”

The silent watchers turned their gaze to Victor, waiting to judge the man for his response to Sherlock’s sacrifice.

“I know that…I do….I just,” Victor said, raising his hands, and bowing his head. “Look, I know this isn’t your thing, but please let me try. Please?” His eyes flickered up hopefully, and just like that the angry fire in Sherlock’s was extinguished.

“You never had to try,” Sherlock said, closing the distance between them with two quick strides. He wrapped his long arms around the other, and held on for dear life, ignoring the murmurs of surprise from their captivated audience. They were desperate men, clinging to their home port after a storm, thankful for the grace they had been shown. Surrounding each other, breath syncing as they maintained their position despite the confusion from the adjoining parties.

“Why didn’t we come back to each other before, Will?” Victor breathed out, holding tight.

“Because I am an idiot.” Sherlock replied quietly, putting an emphasis on each word as he looked into the other man’s face.

At that point, John Watson dropped his glass, Greg Lestrade cursed the fact that he hadn’t been recording, and Mary Watson slipped Molly Hooper a twenty pound note. Mrs. Hudson just shook her head at her boy, and went to pour a glass of brandy for the newcomer. Outside the window, snow began to fall, each flake letting out a small sigh as they landed on the pavement.

———————-

Long after the other attendees had left to their homes and Mrs.Hudson had made her way down the stairs to her nightly soother, the two men were still wrapped around each other. They were laying on the couch, the flat dim around them. The fire had burnt down, the embers glowing like rubies as the occasional snap of a log broke the silence.

“Victor? Why did you come back? Why now?” Sherlock whispered, letting vulnerability leech into his voice.

“I’m retiring.”

“What?”

“I sold the company.”

“But your father..”

“My father is dead. I have no children. I sold the company to a non-profit I work with, although I suppose it would be more accurate to say I gave the company to the non-profit. They make sure that women in India are given equal pay and that the families with children make enough to let the children go to school.” Victor sat up a bit, looking down at the man laying on his chest. "I’m coming back to London, Will, and this time, I plan to stay.”

Sherlock flicked his gaze up to meet Victor’s, studying the older man quietly.  “You’re the only one who calls me that you know.”

“I know.”

“I still have the scarf.”

“And I’m sure you still wear it with that ridiculous coat.”

“You’re going to stay in London?”

“Haven’t I already said that?”

“You’re going to stay with me?" Sherlock asked, struggling to sit up, and succeeding only to have Victor run his hands through the curls on the younger man’s head.

“Was that ever a question?” Victor answered, leaning in to press the first kiss of eighteen years on Sherlock’s lips.

  **December 22th, 2015-** **221b Baker Street**

“William Sherlock Scott Holmes, get down here right now or I will sing Christmas carols all night!”

“You sing, I’ll play violin loud enough to drown you out,”  Sherlock responded, galloping down the stairs as he fastened his left cuff link.

“I knew converting the second bedroom to a lab was a bad plan. Do I want to know what you were doing up there?” Victor asked, as he walked forward to wipe a smudge of soot off the younger man’s eyebrow.

“Not really,” Sherlock answered wryly, just as the doorbell rang. “John and Mary are here, and I’m going to assume they’ve brought the baby.”

“Be nice William.” Victor said, pecking him lightly on the lips before going to ensure the door to the flat was open. Sherlock watched him walk away, fingering the still warm band in his pocket. It hadn’t been long since Victor had walked back into his life, but Sherlock needed to do something to show how he felt. If he had to rely on sentimental nonsense to get his point across, then so be it.

Victor greeted John and Mary at the top of the stairs, taking the baby from Mary and swirling the child around in a circle. John and Mary entered, greeting Sherlock and depositing drinks and food in the kitchen. Molly and Greg came in as Victor cooed at the child, stamping snow off their feet at the door to 221, shouting greetings up to the flat and chatting easily with Mrs. Hudson. Molly made her way up, passing a small package to Victor as Greg was waylaid by a large dish of tarts to take up with him.  

Victor slipped into the hall, balancing the baby on his hip as he peered into the bag. There was a slim band inside, glinting silver. He checked the engraving as Molly played peekaboo with Abigail Watson and smiled. He mouthed a quick ‘thank you’ to the woman and entered the flat again, sliding the contents of the bag into his jeans pocket.

————————-

Hours later, when everyone had eaten their fill and was sitting or standing around the fire in small groups chatting, Sherlock stood. He squeezed Mrs.Hudson’s hand and made his way over to Victor. The conversation paused as the pair entered the center of the room, Sherlock leading Victor by the hand. Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, and paused as a flush ran up his face. He looked around, and tried again, this time succeeding in beginning his monologue.

“Twenty-one years ago to the day, I met this man after his dog tore my ankle apart. I still have the scars. Another thing, I have is someone who I know loves me very much, enough to wait years for me. I refuse to believe that sentiment does not cause most human problems, but I do believe that sometimes, it is worth expressing.” Sherlock faced Victor now, and slowly sank down to one knee, reaching into his pocket.  “As I have no other way to show my affection for you that will make the public understand the depths of it, Victor, I must ask you if you would do me the honor of becoming my husband?”  He held out the ring, engraved just earlier with the date they first met on the inside.

Victor, true to character, laughed gently before responding. “Yes, you formal git, all you had to do was ask!” He smiled, pulling Sherlock up to embrace the man, as the others clapped and cheered.

They pulled away from each other, and Sherlock slipped the ring onto Victor’s finger. Only Victor saw how his hands were shaking, as the band slid down to rest below the knuckle. They kissed softly, but Victor cut it short, slipping a hand around Sherlock’s arm. Sherlock looked up warily. “Did I do it wrong?” he whispered.

“No love, you did it just right, but I need to say something,” Victor whispered back, taking a step away.

“I’m rather upset with you right now Sherlock,” Victor said, raising his voice. Sherlock stiffened before realizing that Victor was joking. “You see, I had something planned for tonight and I’m afraid you’ve messed up my plans.” Sherlock furrowed his brow in concern, running his eyes over the other, attempting to deduce. Victor sank to one knee, mimicking the other man’s earlier actions.  Sherlock’s eyes went wide as Victor reached into his pocket, mouth opening in a silent gasp.

“It’s been twenty-one years to the day since I met this man, and he is always surprising me. In addition to that he is always one upping me like you just saw. Now, I don’t believe sentiment is a defect, even though it causes so many problems. I do know it comes in damn handy in times like this. I love this man, and all his quirks and I’m not afraid to admit it. So William Sherlock Scott Holmes, will you marry me?” Victor finished, smiling, one eyebrow raised in a query as he held up a ring, the engraving inside a perfect match to the one currently resting on his finger.

Sherlock said nothing, only nodded shakily, mouthing a silent yes. Victor stood and slipped the ring onto his finger. Surrounded by the friends that had become his family, holding onto the man he loved, Sherlock Holmes would finally allow the last of the walls he had built up so long ago fade away into a distant memory.

**Author's Note:**

> And as always, find me [here](http://hums-happily.tumblr.com/) on tumblr.  
> Any notification of errors are accepted with gratefulness that knows no bounds.  
> Kudos, comments, and your happy (pained) flailing are accepted with glee. I hope you enjoyed!  
> 


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